


In Such Matters As Conquest

by doomcanary



Series: Conquest [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kind of kinky character study of Arthur. It does not, alas, contain hot PWP; my bunny died on me. Feel free to treat that as an excuse to write the way it *should* have ended :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Such Matters As Conquest

At times, Arthur can see the man Merlin is going to be. In a still moment in candlelight his face seems heavier, older; in a tilt of the shoulders he stands tall. In rebellious flashes of blue eyes, the world whispers that one day, Arthur will no longer be able to order Merlin around.

But for now... ah, for now. Arthur is merciless to Merlin in training, knocks him down without quarter, hauls him to his feet to best him again. It brings that flash of rebellion to Merlin's eyes; and after a while, Merlin begins to surprise him with a coiled strength, a focused aggression that he only ever uses when he genuinely has a chance to take Arthur down. It's then that Arthur begins to feel that savage joy, down in the pit of his stomach where he feels anger and lust. Fighting Merlin becomes truly a contest – and when Arthur wins, there's something else in Merlin's eyes too. Arthur thinks he may understand what it is.

Winter nights are long in Camelot, the stone walls reluctant to shed their ancient chill. The castle becomes a landscape of isolated fires, each one an oasis of warmth and light; each corridor, each hall, an ordeal of darkness and freezing air. Arthur orders Merlin to keep his chambers warm, watches the ease with which he hefts thick logs into the grate. He shifts in his fur-draped chair, crossing muscled legs and contemplating Merlin; his servant looks back over his shoulder, and pauses. Arthur knows his own face; knows the feline tilt to his eyes, the sharp angles of his bones. There's something both animal and statuesque to his beauty; he cannot imagine how it appears in firelight, but Merlin is arrested for a long moment, his sharp cheekbone shadowed and his eyes dark in the dimness. Arthur slowly closes his eyes and opens them again, and Merlin looks away.

Yes, Arthur begins to believe he knows very well what he sees in Merlin's eyes, when he looks down on him as he lies thrown and mutinous on the ground.

“Merlin,” he orders. Merlin straightens.

“Sire?”

Arthur does nothing but incline his head, indicating a spot on the ground close to his chair. Merlin looks quizzical, but comes over.

“Do you want me, Merlin?”

Merlin's eyes widen in shock. “What?”

“It's a simple enough question.”

“I – sire, that's not – it wouldn't be appropriate to my -”

“Answer me, Merlin.”

Merlin falls silent; he swallows, and wets his lips. Arthur allows himself to observe them; full, forming an elegant bow. Beautiful, and yet masculine.

“I'll make this easy for you, Merlin,” he says. “You may turn around and leave this room, or you may do as I order you. Is that clear?”

Merlin's face is alive with emotion. He nods, once.

“Good.”

Arthur lets the silence stretch. Merlin watches him, shifts on his feet; parts his lips to speak, and thinks better of it. Arthur smiles to himself, and stays silent.

“Er -”

“Strip.”

The shock of that single word makes Merlin sway back a little in place; his eyes flash blue and wide. Arthur holds them; challenging, mocking, unyielding.

Merlin's fingers twitch; he's breathing quickly. Arthur rises slowly to his feet, and crosses to Merlin; he draws his dagger, and runs the tip in a slow line down Merlin's chest.

“Strip,” he says softly, “or I will cut this off you.”

There's a moment of impasse. Arthur breaks it with a sudden move forward, reaching for Merlin's shirt to cut it free. Merlin twists out of his reach, and tears the shirt off over his head. He slowly draws his hands out of the sleeves, the shirt hanging limp in his hand; his hair is messy, his shoulders white. His chest rises and falls in a fast but steady rhythm, and in his eyes as he looks at Arthur is that flash of rebellion.

Oh yes; Arthur knows what Merlin wants. He surveys his new kingdom, the faintly defined planes of Merlin's slender torso, the stance so eloquent, caught between wariness and need. There is a whole campaign to be fought here. Merlin's eyes tell of subtler victories that must be won if this land is to own itself conquered; of many bridges to cross before its people bow to their new king.

Arthur has not lived his whole life a prince to be backward in such matters as conquest.

**Author's Note:**

> This turned into a series quite without me trying to make it one. It gets a *lot* darker, you have been warned.


End file.
